Five times John thinks he sees Sherlock
by Raggedy Dama
Summary: And the one time he does, he can't quite believe it. Takes place after Season 2. A Post Reichenbach\Reunion fic. (Ch.3 is out)
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello fellow Sherlockians. I'm not sure if anyone has already done something similar to this…I know there are other 'five times' so this is mine. I'm planning on making this a 6 chapter story, with a possible short sequel. So here we go. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

**Chapter 1: Every time**

There is something about this time of the year that makes John' s insides flip over. The light crunch of the leaves, as he steps over them, should be relaxing and not irritating. The distant outline of the hill, that has completely yellowed now, shouldn't anger the once very patient man.

It's raining. He used to love rain…well not exactly love, but it has never bothered him. It has even been pleasant taking a quiet stroll down the street in a rainy day.

And now, John thinks, quickening his pace with puddles splashing below his feet, that there is nothing special about it. Nothing special about autumn. He simply can't understand what fascinates people so much in this particular season.

For people, autumn is something spectacular: full of fragile colours and beauty. It makes them smile, it makes them happy… it makes them feel the whole wonder of life. It never does the same things to John, though.

For John it is dryness in the throat, stinging of the wind and the bitterness of his memories. Autumn means that another year is coming to an end. Another year without the familiar notes of the violin, heads in the fridge, experiments on the kitchen table or thumbs in their non-existent laundry. It means another space of 12 calendar months coming to an end without the so desired miracle…without his infatuating flat mate. His best friend.

The path that has become very familiar through the past three years, starts narrowing. He's almost there then. John allows himself a small sad smile as the dark stone appears into his vision.

He makes a skip, where he knows there is a hole, now well hidden under a colorful blanket of leaves. He doesn't know if he should feel proud or disturbed by the fact that he has memorized every small detail of the area.

John doesn't like autumn. He doesn't like it, because every autumn he loses another small amount of hope. Because it is a reminder to John, that he's hoping for something, that will not happen. Cannot happen.

He lowers the flowers to the ground. The same every year… _every time. _

"Hello, old friend." He mutters softly, straightening his composure.

Calloused fingers gently stroke away the drops, hitting the side of the headstone. He moves his hand right to the front…just to make sure. He sighs as his fingers run over the engraved 'Sherlock Holmes' yet again. _Every time_.

He doesn't know what he's hoping for anymore. He always avoids that question…just hopes and that is it. A quiet 'Almost three years…' comes out of his mouth and he shivers. He isn't sure if it's because of the crisp autumn air or from the feel of the words on his lips.

"I should stop hoping…" he says eventually, then laughs hoarsely at his own words. 'Useless sentiments' Sherlock would say. He rubs furiously at his eyes, before looking up. Gray clouds are covering the blue of the sky, blocking the rays of the sun.

This is precisely why John Watson hates autumn. He takes a deep breath, bids a silent goodbye to his dear friend and turns around. He stars walking back in the same direction he came from. It takes John a few minutes through his ragged breathing to realize that he is running._ Every time._

He braces himself and inhales sharply. The smell of the rain is still fresh and strong to his nostrils. He frowns and continues to the road.

The good doctor clutches at the lapels of his jacket. It is cold today. Anybody else however, would find it rather warm for an autumn afternoon. But not John. Another shiver runs through his spine and he effectively buries his hands in his pockets, expecting the hired cabbie to arrive any moment.

Until then, he entertains himself with watching the multiple cars pass by in front of him. His mind wanders to another dull evening that is awaiting him at his new…_old_ flat. The sounds of the horns are loud but he is actually grateful for it. It numbs out his thoughts for a while.

A sudden movement on the other side of the street catches his attention. He can't hear anything through all of the traffic noises, but he notices the shifting and then he sees it.

John jerks his head up at the sight of the tall, dark figure standing beside a street sign. His breathing quickens and he is struggling for air. John wants to call out, but all he can do is stare; his eyes wide in disbelief and mouth agape. Ella says it can happen to people who are grieving…who are in denial. But this is no hallucination. He blinks twice. John can recognize that elegant posture, the curly mop of hair…oh God that ridiculous coat. John could recognize them anywhere.

It seems like he has been staring for hours, which in fact were a few lucky seconds. And he too realizes it as out of nowhere a bus drives right past the man and comes to a halt.

A feeling of terror goes through John as he loses the man from his view. He shakes himself from his trance and strides across the street and to the other side. He ignores the angry and annoyed voices of some drivers, shouting something at him.

"Sherlock!" he goes for a shout, but it only comes out as a whimper. Hardly anyone could have heard him through all of the buzzing.

He looks around frantically for the man…for someone, for something. But he is alone. Not even a trace of his friend is left. John closes his eyes to recover from what happened. 'Must've imagined it…' he tries to assure himself, insecurely. He takes unsure steps along the lonely road, trying to clear his head.

"Sherlock…" he murmurs to himself, shaking his head. His voice is full of sadness and regrets. _Every time. _

**AN: So should I continue? Let me know. **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hello there. First things first, a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who reviewed, read and followed this story. It really means a lot to me. And I find it necessary to mention that John does see Sherlock every time, it's just he always thinks that it's his imagination playing tricks on him. I have been inspired by a part from the 'Sherlock pilot'. When Angelo throws Sherlock out of his restaurant, in order to make an impression of the other being drunk. So I kinda involved a similar happening here, just saying.:)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. **

**Chapter 2: Another Change**

John sighed contently as he made his way through the park. The air was warm, gentle breezes blowing through his hair. He walked between railings barring his path, not quite knowing his destination yet.

Over to the right, he saw a children's playground, with swings and a sandpit and all being used by a group of youngsters. The laughter of small children running about, brought a smile to the former soldier's face.

On the other side of the path there was a lush plantation of many trees, of which fresh scent was filling the summer air to completion. As he walked further into the park, he saw rows of green benches, all of them taken. It seemed like everyone was loving the warmth and the sunshine of the day. People sitting on them, were busy with different activities. Some of them were eating sandwitches, having a cool drink, and some of them were just resting.

As he continued walking, over in the distance he saw a lonely bench, almost completely hidden under the massive but not unwelcome shade of the tree in the behind. _'My luck.'_ John thought and went right there.

Once again he noticed the peacefulness and the quiet of the area. Surely, this local park was a true wonder and right in the middle of the city too. John always enjoyed walking in the park, like many other people…he was thankful for its existence. It had become a place he walked often, when he wanted to set his mind off things.

He was nearly there, when a cheerful voice not from far away, stopped him in his tracks.

"John Watson!" came the familiar greeting of his old study mate.

"Hello!" exclaimed John as he met his friend Mike, then frowned. "You're looking a bit off colour. Anything wrong?"

"I'm afraid there is," replied Mike with a low chuckle, "I've had to give up drinking, smoking and gambling."

John laughed also, as they shook hands.

"I guess there's no use then, to offer you some beer?" he asked teasingly.

"Of course." Mike answered with an indignant snort. "It's a special occasion, isn't it?"

"Absolutely." John agreed with a nod. "So how have you been?"

Mike Stamford regarded him with a careful look and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You tell me." He said eventually, pointing at the object, tightly clutched in John's grip. The good doctor looked down too and acknowledged the cane with an uneasy smile. _Ah…the cane. _He shook his head in disapproval. What kind of rubbish had he been filling himself with? Since when did he enjoy quiet walks in a park? But would it be wiser to talk about the nightmares that had been plunging him? Or to mention that the limp was gradually returning?

"It's nothing. I'm fine." John said with a confident smile, moving the third foot ahead of them.

After a bit more of walking around, they finally decided to have some dinner. John felt rather uncomfortable when his friend wished to dine in the restaurant they had been to the last time. It being 'At Angelo's'. But John brushed it off as soon as they started conversing about random things. He, however, didn't know if he should be grateful or frustrated with Mike, who seemed to be tactfully avoiding saying anything about his former flat mate. More than once the man would open his mouth to speak up and then, as if remembering something, would close it quickly after.

When they started nearing the place and the average sized board with the restaurant's name came into view, John decided that he was actually glad, for Mike hadn't mentioned anything about the detective. Even the sight of the bright spot brought an unexpected weakness to the good doctor's knees.

John took a deep breath and wondered briefly, if had Mike known that him and Sherlock had been eating at Angelo's after almost every case, would've he still suggested coming here?

But he didn't have much time to linger on the idea as a man in a dark mask with a leather bag in his hands practically threw himself out of the said restaurant and continued his way running along the length of the street. Angelo appeared at the doorway a few seconds later, his deep voice roaring and his accent thick with fury.

John Watson reacted on an instinct. Ignoring Mike's questioning shouts, he dashed forward and after the man, who was obviously guilty. Although the criminal had a head start, John could tell that he was comparably faster than the doctor. With those abnormally long legs…

But John kept running, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He hadn't felt anything like this for a long…very long time.

The man in the mask suddenly turned left and for a moment John lost him from his sight. With a curse under his breath, he strode right after the thief and felt encouraged again as he noticed him down the alley.

'_Ha! Take that!'_ John thought triumphantly as the path came to a deadlock. There was now a wall separating the criminal from his freedom and the former soldier in John kicked in, making him run faster.

The 3 meter brick wall though, didn't seem to stop the man at all. In fact it only made him fasten his ministrations too. With the previous hastiness, the thief effectively swung himself over the wall.

'_No! No! No!'_ John could feel disappointment begin to wash over him, as the man was about to slip away from him. Although he never stopped running towards the wall, the chances of him catching the criminal, were close to nil.

Already having a leg and an arm over the wall, the thief seemed to consider jumping to the other side completely or getting down, as he realized that he couldn't break away successfully with one of his hands occupied. However, John was almost there and he couldn't risk being caught. So he did the obvious: dropped the bag and escaped gracefully, leaving a very confused and panting John Watson with a leather bag of stolen goods.

The next day John slept till noon, surprisingly with no nightmares at all. When he awoke he once again had this boldness and cheery mood from yesterday. He hadn't caught the burglar, but it was a sweet distraction nonetheless.

He put on his coat and walked to the front door of his flat, thinking over the events of the day before yet again. That thief was obviously an amateur, from what he could figure out. For who would treat their 'stealings' so carelessly? Truth be told, the whole incident seemed a bit suspicious to John, but he shrugged it off soon after he had returned the bag and seen Angelo's relieved face.

He opened the door before stopping midway. John went through the contents of his pockets and sighed. _'Keys.' _He reminded himself and turned away from the door. The bundle of the keys was lying on the cupboard and he was about to grab it, when a dull 'thud' from the doorway made him spin back around.

"Hey!" he called out sharply and hastily walked to the entrance.

The shadow of a man observed him for a while, before quickly started making his way down the stairs.

"Who are…" John trailed off as his eyes finally laid on the familiar object, leaning on one of the handling bars.

"…you..?" he finished lamely and picked up his cane, which had been completely forgotten. John stood there for another few minutes, tracing patterns on the head of the metallic stick and thinking. Then the good doctor, seemed to have finally made a decision. After he once again threw a searching gaze for the mysterious man, he stepped to one of the trash bins and without a second thought, threw the cane away.

**AN: I'm not so sure about this chapter, as I was very sleepy while writing it. Was it good? No? Should I continue?**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sorry for the delay. I have been a bit busy lately. But I am going to be updating this frequently now. Perhaps two times this coming week. So in this chapter John doesn't exactly see Sherlock, but there's a tone of sassy Harry in this one. To keep you entertained.:D**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. **

**Chapter 3: Breaking pulse**

"Alright...yes, Harry. Sure. Mm-hm...worry not. I won't forget. Yes, Harry." John zigzagged between various boxes, balancing his phone with his shoulder, while carrying a pack of books in his hands.

"I'm leaving in a few hours. I shall see the landlady first." he said, going through the objects of his handbag. " Then straight to the fla-oof!"

The former soldier cursed under his breath as he tripped over a package, sending its contents crashing to the floor. With a sigh, he bent down to pick up the sprawled items.

"Nothing. It's fine... Yes, I'm sure." another deep sigh. "Harry, I'm perfectly capable of living alone. I remember what I said, but I don't want to be bargaining into you and Clara's life." John made a triumphant sound, as he had finally succeeded to give his belongings a decent look. "Yes, I know it's fine, but still."

He maneuvered his way into the kitchen and stopped briefly at the doorway. It was sickeningly unusual, seeing the kitchen table actually serving for its purpose in the house. No experiments, no chemical liquids, no suspicious looking bottles, that really should have just stayed at the lab.

John stepped closer to the table and a small smile grazed his lips. His fingers automatically reached out to trace a pattern over the familiar dash across the board. Funny, he had never questioned Sherlock on how exactly he had managed to ugly the wood. They didn't even change the table. They hardly ever ate at home...and when they did, they would order take away or Mrs. Hudson would have mercy on them. Bless her.

"Hm? Yes, I'm listening." he shook himself off from his dazed stance and continued his way to the cupboard.

"No, I won't regret it later. By the way, how's Clara doing?" The instant he said that, John flinched uncomfortably and removed the cellphone from his ear and held it a safe distance away. After what seemed like a few minutes, and the high pitched babbling from the receiver had comparably died down, he brought the phone back.

"I was an idiot for asking you that." he rolled his eyes, retrieving a mug and pouring some hot water into it.

"_Yes, but I thought you'd improve."_ said the feminine voice.

And to John's annoyance, his sister was talking in her trade mark unreadable voice. He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or serious.

"Well, excuse me for not living up to your expectations, my dear sister." he tried for the same tone, but as manys had told him in the past, 'he was too sweet for sarcasm'.

"_You are forgiven. Anyway, how about we meet up, when you have moved in?"_

"I...don't know." came the uncertain reply.

"_Oh come off it, John. It'll be a nice distraction. We can call Bill over too. Actually it will be more beneficial for him. He hasn't been out one night for three weeks!"_ she said indignantly.

"Oh?" John asked with a chuckle, "Has he turned over a new leaf?"

"_No; he's turned over a new car."_ But before John could open his mouth to ask something, Harry continued. _"He's fine. No damage done. So what do you say?"_

"Mmm...alright. Fine." The doctor gave in after a minute of hesitation, mostly just to end this ridiculous conversation.

"_Great. See you soon, then."_

"Yeah...see ya." he was about to hang up, when his sister asked in an uncharacteristically sympathetic manner.  
_"John...Are_ you _alright?"_

John placed his tea on the coffee table, ignoring his slightly shaking hand. He nodded dumbly, before remembering that she couldn't see him.

"Yes..." he said, clearing his throat. "I'm fine. As good as I can be."

And if Harry didn't buy it, she chose not to show it.

He put his phone away and massaged his temples tiredly. Why is it that almost after every talk with his sister he was left with a headache? Although, this time he was thankful for his sister's nosy personality. He doubted he would've been able to make it through the night, without losing his sanity.

John glanced at his watch. Nearly 6 am. Still very early, so he had another few hours to kill. He decided to leave the kitchen's light on, letting it illuminate into the living room, since it was still rather dark in the flat. The sun hadn't even risen yet.

Through the dark, it was easy for him to detect the red blinking light coming from the sofa. John went right there and found his notebook almost completely covered under the many cushions. He shook his head in disbelief. So he had forgotten after all.

He took hold of his mac and sited himself there instead. The battery was low, but it was too late to go and attempt to find the charger in all those bags. He'd only make a mess and what was the point? He was leaving in a while, anyway.

Making a sip from his mug, John opened his laptop, for the first time since the past week. He was met with an already opened(or rather, not closed) window of his blog. Former blog, if being accurate. He hadn't written anything lately and truth be told, was not intending to. John swallowed down his tea with difficulty as his eyes fell on his last post.

**16th June**

**Untitled**

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. **Read more.**

**0 comments**

He didn't even bother to refresh the site. Nobody read it anymore. Why should they? Just as he was about to close the tab, a light beeping was heard. At first he thought it was just the reminder sign to charge the computer, but no... it was nothing close to it. He stared at the screen, that remained relatively unchanged, except for one line. A very short line. Just a word and a natural number.

**1 comment**...it now said.

Hesitantly clicking at the same line a few times for good measure, John licked his lips in anticipation. If it was again one of those darned journalists trying to snake in with their rude remarks and unceremonious expressions, sure as hell he was going to tell them exactly what he thought and where they should go running with their 'so called truth'.

But instead of an accusing letter directed at him or his former flat mate, he found himself gawking at three simple words, forming the more simple sentence.

'Thank you, John.' it said. Nothing more. Not even the name or the time of sending showed.

He rubbed his eyes vigorously and opened them slowly, uncertainly. Nope..still there. He exhaled sharp and shaky, his hold on the notebook tightening noticeably. What kind of a sick joke was this? John could feel his limbs begin to tremble, his knuckles whitening from his bold grip on the laptop. He didn't know what to do...he didn't know what to _think_!

Suddenly the light from the kitchen started flickering uncontrollably. John's glare turned into a quizzical look, just as the lights went out completely. And it being the only source of light at the moment, left the good doctor siting there in the dark, still plainly confused. As if on cue, the notebook let out another weak signaling sound, before shutting down.

It took John a few shameful minutes to register the happened. He blinked numbly into the darkness, not moving an inch from his spot.

"What the hell?" he mused out loud, his anger seemingly drained out of him at the turn of the events. Who was the lunatic to leave that anonymous comment? And most importantly what did he mean by it? It didn't make bloody sense. He let out a humorless snort, as a ludicrous idea crossed his mind. _Stop. _He told himself firmly...no way it could be real...It just couldn't.

The groaning noise of the fridge made John snap out of his thoughts, The lights were back. With a new found determination, the good doctor leapt from the sofa and strode to the packages. Now he just had to find that charger...He started with his bag at first, uncaringly throwing the contents to the floor. Then he moved to the carton packs. John had to empty three boxes and a suitcase, before he spotted the charger lying innocently between his jumpers. He didn't waste time on thinking about how he had come up with such a spectacularly brilliant idea to put a charger with his clothes. He hurried back to the notebook.

"Come on. Come on." he muttered encouragingly as he waited for the laptop to turn on at last. With as much hastiness as he could muster with the piece of technology, John opened the browser and desperately waited for his blog to load. And he couldn't hide his disappointment when the page went back to showing **0 comments****.**

John gazed at the screen owlishly, swiping away a light layer of sweat from his forehead with his hand. Had he imagined it? He could swear he saw it! It wasn't some bizarre dream or his imagination playing tricks on him. _He saw it._

Eventually, he put the offensive item away. Vowing to himself, not to check his blog. Ever. Again. He let out a shuddering breath, hiding his face in his palms. For a second there...for one insane moment, he thought it was..._No! It couldn't be!_ John shook his head at the absurd idea. It couldn't be _him_.

The rest of the day went fluently, with John repeating to himself the words that he had been saying not once during the last few weeks to convince himself.

_I took his pulse._

**AN: If you check John Watson's blog, you can see that ^ was in fact his last post on the site. I kinda decided to use it as a version. There's no time following in this story, so you can say that this all happened just a few weeks after Sherlock's fall. While the previous chapters- a year or two later. And I have one question, as I've already planned out to include Mary in the last two chapters and Molly in another, it leaves a spare chapter. If you have any requests or suggestions, feel free to offer them. Reviews are very much appreciated.:)**


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